Bucket
by kouw
Summary: Elsie gets caught in the storm and doesn't want to drag the rain and mud all through the house, so she decides to get warm in the scullery. But is she alone? (mature content)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Warning - sexual content

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She is soaked. Her wrap is heavy and dripping, her hat is a mess. Her shoes make sopping noises as she makes her way from the hall to the scullery. It won't do go into her sitting room, getting her nice carpet all wet and muddy.

She doesn't often get caught in the rain, she has a keen eye for the clouds that drift over their part of Yorkshire, but today the weather turned as quickly as it could in the Highlands when she was a girl and she remembers it all as she takes big steps, hurries into the scullery.

First you take off your wet things while Mother prepares your bath and while you soak to get warm, she hangs your nightgown in front of the fire so it is all toasty when you pull it over your head. She brushes your hair, braids it and all the while she sings you songs in the language that is as much part of you as the rugged landscape.

There is no tub in the scullery, only the overlarge sink and it only serves the purpose of filling buckets for mopping, cleaning dishes after dinner. She fills a small bucket, thankful there is hot water in this part of the house. She leaves it standing in the sink, starts peeling away the layers of waterlogged garments, rids herself of her hat and boots. Carefully unpins the brooch she has pinned to her chest: a family piece, her mother left it to her, gave it to her when she left home, on her way to a better life.

As she unhooks her dress as steadily as she can - she is shivering, shaking, the rain was cold, the wind has blown against her so fiercely, her skin is red, the tips of her fingers hardly feel anything - she thinks how it had been better, her life compared to her mother's, but not by much. She has always had to do another woman's bidding, though she was lucky to have stumbled upon a kindly woman of dignity and strength.

You have to be strong if you want to make it in another land, away from your family. She knows all about that. You have to change your ways, your voice, the way you speak, have to lose the mannerisms that are part of you, your upbringing. But Her Ladyship has done all that, has learned to cope with the demands and pulls of the class she has married into, just as she has learned to mold herself to the demands of houses that aren't her own. They understand each other well.

She stands in her stockinged feet on the cold slabs and wonders how she will ever get warm again. She drops a cloth in the warm water, pulls it out, starts rubbing her arms first. The redness remains, but the skin tingles and she feels how her blood is starting to stream again. She peels off her stockings, checks behind her, there seems to be no-one there. She unhooks her corset, lifts her chemise over her head, pulls her knickers down, steps out of them.

The sink is large, large enough for her to sit on the side and have her calfs in warm water if she wants. She takes the bucket out, sets it beside her, puts the stopper in the drain and turns on the hot water as she climbs on the side and starts to pour water all over herself with the bucket. She looks at the doorway again, but it is still empty - she has come home late, she knew everyone would most likely have gone up - and she kneels in the sink. It's a tight fit, her toes are a bit scrunched up, but she doesn't mind. She doesn't much care she is splashing a bit over the sides as she drops bucket after bucket over her shoulders, back and chest, she will mop it up later. Right now all she is interested in is getting warm.

Tomorrow she will ask Anna to help her wash her hair, she cannot manage it alone, it is too long, too difficult to handle, but she pulls the pins from the coiffure, heavy as it is with the rain, it falls on her back in wide tangles and she slowly tips the bucket over her head, the warm water sliding down the auburn locks.

She doesn't hear him approach. He has been in his pantry, waiting for her, waiting for her to be safely indoors, close to him even though they are separated by corridors and walls. He doesn't like it if she stays out late. He knows she is allowed her day off and that she is allowed to take a train and spend the day elsewhere, but he doesn't like it. He worries about her. The world is a dangerous place for a woman alone. Dreadful things happen to women who walk home alone in the dark.

He has heard the backdoor open and close and he has heard her turn the lock, he has heard her take steps so out of her ordinary tread, heard the door of the scullery open and the water being turned on. She didn't come through the Servants' Hall to put away her hat - she doesn't leave it by the door, they are expensive, her only luxuries he believes, her hats, her coats - though she wasn't wearing one today -, the little embroidered handkerchiefs she has tucked into the sleeve of her dress.

Five minutes pass. Ten. A quarter of an hour and he worries again. The water is still on, the hot even, he hears the boiler storm. He gets up from his comfortable chair, puts his book on the side table. He doesn't bother to straighten his tie, do up his two top buttons, she has seen him before like this, when they share leftover wine and a last piece of Stilton. She tells him to get more comfortable, not to work so hard, not to worry so - she knows him so well, better than anyone has ever known him.

But he cannot help worrying now and he makes his way to scullery and stops moving as soon as he sees her.

She is every bit as beautiful as he has imagined, night after night, alone in his bed, his cheeks flushed, his hand tightly around himself, moving without uttering a sound. Her skin glistens with droplets of water and she has found a small bar of soap and she works up a lather, washes herself with the practical movements of a woman who does not bathe for luxury. He hair is so long, it falls as far as the curve of her bottom and he cannot help but being drawn to the swell of her breasts, the taut nipples as they react with the cool night air and the water.

He swallows, hard and he somehow stumbles, falls against the doorpost and she turns in surprise, covers herself with her arms.

Neither speaks as they try to find their bearings, try to find out what to do. Finally he moves, comes closer to her, bends and opens the cabinet, pulls out a large towel they keep there in case they need to dry off Isis. It's not a the prettiest, but it is clean and he holds it up for her, but she doesn't move.

"Mr Carson... I..." she says and she looks down.

He already knew she was completely without clothes. He has watched her as she poured water from the bucket over her breasts, her shoulder. He has seen how she rubbed her skin with the soap and washed it away again. He has seen how wet her hair is and how her eyes shine in the flickering light of the lonely bulb in the corner, there where the ironing board is, where the scullery maids iron the dish cloths, where the Lady's Maids take care of their Lady's finery. He will never look at this particular room the same way.

"What is it?" His voice sounds foreign to him. Soft, gentle.

"I appreciate your concern..."

She hears how her accent intensifies with each word and she shakes her head.

Funny how she isn't all that embarrassed.

Well, she is, but not about her nakedness. She is embarrassed because she needs a hand to help her up. She is stiff from sitting on her knees. She is not a young maid anymore, she doesn't clean the grates in the morning, doesn't mop the floors. She oversees all of that, will demonstrate if need be, but it has been a long, long time she has sat on her knees and she chuckles slightly.

"Give me your hand Mr Carson." And she reaches out, revealing herself to him again.

He takes her hand and she turns into his touch, moves so his arm supports her and she carefully lifts herself out of the sink, sits down on the edge.

"Oh!" She lets out a surprised little squeal. "It's cold..." She explains.

He just stares at her, wipes his hand on his trousers, looks and looks and she doesn't quite know what to do.

No-one has ever seen her like this and she is intensely glad it is him who came to check, not Thomas or one of the young footmen. She might have scarred them for life, but not him. He is just in awe, lets his gaze wander of her collarbones, her smooth upper arms and he picks up the towel he had dropped and puts it around her back, closes it in front of her, lifts her hair from under it.

"I am not quite sure how to do that..." He mumbles and she smiles, reaches out to his cheek, touches it briefly.

"We'll need another towel..." She says and he grabs one.

"And we need to pick up these clothes and quickly mop up this mess I have made."

He nods and hands her the towel, which she quickly wraps around her hair and she is on her knees again - it's painful, but necessary - and has the floor as good as dry within moments. He has picked up her clothes, her soaked through dress and undergarments and he stares at them in disbelief.

"Come, we'll take them to my sitting room. We'll hang them up to dry there."

She takes his free hand and leads him to her room. He has kept her fire burning so it's toasty and the soft lights casts shadows on the wall as she busies herself with her things for a moment. He stays behind her, not knowing what to do, it's impossible to turn away. He has seen her, all of her: the softer flesh of her belly, her strong legs, her feet - so much smaller than he had thought before. Now she is putting her corset out to dry, shakes her head, mutters something to herself, but he doesn't hear.

The towel is not quite covering her, he sees her bottom as she moves from side to side and he tries everything to stop himself from getting aroused: counts the silver in his head, thinks of his first school teacher, of the fish Mrs Patmore had Ivy clean today, but none of it works. His cock strains painfully against the fabric of his underwear.

When she turns to him he cannot help but make a strangled noise. The towel drops.

Her hair is still wrapped up, but she undoes it, dries the strands with a smile curling around her lips. She stands before him, unassuming, but he knows she has noticed. She takes a step closer to him. Another. Yet another. She is so close to him now, he can feel her warmth, if he moves, he'll touch her. The thought both delights and scares him. He lets it all be in her hands.

She gladly takes it.

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Will they remember the brooch in the scullery? Will she explain to him why she is not bothered by him seeing her? Find out next time!  
(And reviews totally rock my socks, so don't hesitate!)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Picking up right where we left off. Still very much a WARNING FOR SEXUAL CONTENT. Thought I'd better get that out of the way.

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His broad form gives off such warmth and she places her hand on his chest, stands on her toes, cannot quite reach his ear as she whispers: "Are you alright, Mr Carson?"

Oh it's mean, uncalled for. Even without her clothes on she has the upper hand.

She had not expected him to answer. "Not quite, Mrs Hughes." His voice sounds dry, but clear and firm and she leans in even more, presses her breasts again his starched shirt and pristine waistcoat. He doesn't move, just stands there and she can feel it is costing him all he has and she pushes him further: "Is there a way I could make it... better?" She gently pushes her knee between his legs, lodges herself there. He is so warm and he smells so nice, so much of home.

She has longed to come home from the moment she had boarded the train back to Ripon, had seen the streetlights guide her way from Ripon to Downton, her dress had dragged through the mud as the rain came pouring down and she had thought of getting warm, getting clean and coming home. To him.

She lays her cheek on his chest, hears the rumbling of his heart, the deep breathing of his lungs and it sounds exactly as she has always imagined it would. Calming. Present. Fluid. She in turn takes a deep breath. She doesn't startle when finally - finally - his arms circle around her, his hands land on her waist and the small of her back.

His fingertips are soft, so different from Joe's and she knows she shouldn't compare. How can you compare a man who wants to marry you but doesn't love you to a man who loves you but cannot marry you?

Deep in her heart she knows it, she knows he loves her, it cannot be anything else. His care when they thought she would die, his song of relieve. The way he tells her to not be sentimental - because he knows that when she starts, he will. Sometimes she thinks he feels things so deeply, he does not know it, doesn't know he has trapped himself in the shell that is 'the butler'.

She will not die, not today and she doesn't have to worry anymore. It has set her free. She can now pursue him, dangers are out of the way, if she lies with him it will just be an act of love and she has longed for it for so long. She puts her arms around his waist now, lets herself be embraced, cuddled almost, but she feels him poke against her and she bites back a smile.

"Let me make it better..." Her voice is husky and she hardly recognises it as her own. She pulls on his lapels, makes him bend and captures his lips with hers. They are soft and supple and warm. He kisses her tenderly, with care, gently. He takes his time. It's all so different from the quick romps of her early days as a maid. So different from being chased by the second son and taken as good as against her will.

There is no fear, only longing and the deep understanding that this is right, even if it may be wrong. Just as she wants to break the kiss, wants to give him the opportunity to get out, his hand lowers and cups her bottom and he presses her against him more firmly. His kisses become more demanding and she lets herself be swept up by the rushing of her blood, the wetness that is between her legs and she starts unbuttoning the waistcoat, his shirt.

When she pulls his vest from his waistband, she finally has reached his skin and it feels like nothing has ever felt before. She slides her hand over his belly - soft, supple, the muscles hidden these days, but she knows he's strong - to his chest, the softest skin of her underarms against his warmth makes her bite her lip. They finally break apart, her lips are slightly sore, her breathing is laboured, but as she looks into his eyes everything is there, everything she had hoped for. He will not hurt her, he will let her set the pace, he will put himself in service to her. He loves her. Wants her. She sees it, feels it, she leans against him, helps him with the rest of his clothes, slowly, carefully.

She's wanted him for so long and she wants him so badly now. He attacks the base of her throat with kisses, cups her breast, flicks his thumb over her nipple and she arches her back, trying to give him the space he needs, hopes he understands she loves it, that this is exactly what she wants.

She kisses him again, lips moving, tongues dancing and it is all so exhilarating and so comfortable at the same time. What she had hoped for when she was still young enough to think that maybe one day she might marry, before she became Headhousemaid, before she decided ambition would bring her further when the boys stopped looking at her, when she found the first wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, the first few silver hairs (she yanked them all out).

His hands map her out, explore her skin, glide over her breasts, belly, hips. Land on her bottom and he gently kneads her flesh and she cannot think. He takes one hand off her and she whimpers, but pulls herself together as he tries to take off his underwear and she is confronted with all of him for the first time.

He lets her look, seemingly relaxed under her gaze. She knows she is blushing, but she does not avert her eyes. He pulls her closer, gets back to his explorations and they stumble through the room, trying to find a place, any place, to take this one step further.

She ends up on his lap in one of the armchairs and it's not very comfortable, but it is close and she feels safe and loved. She twists and turns until she has one knee on either side of him, but they are locked, cannot move and she lets out a moan of frustration. So close, so close are they to where she needs them to be. His fingers ghost over the satiny skin of her inner thigh, higher and higher and she squirms until he touches her there, dips his finger in the moistness, into the depth and she makes a sound she has never heard herself make before.

He speaks up now he is the one in control: "What is it that you want, Mrs Hughes?"

"This... all of this... you..." She stammers as he pushes his fingers - first one, then two - into her. She marvels at how easy she moves with him, how good it feels when his hand steadies her. She gyrates, tries to make him touch her exactly where she loves it so when she does it herself - her lonely bed, her mind full of him, broad shoulders, fierce eyes, proud stance - but he shakes his head.

"Not yet..."

"Charles..." She finds it hard to stay coherent. He is obviously more experienced, perhaps he once loved a woman, she fleetingly thinks. She hopes he doesn't find her clumsy, but she thinks not. It's all going so naturally, unhesitantly and she leans back, lets him retract his fingers, clambers off, checks under her. The matting is rough, but if she puts down the soft woolen plaid she keeps in her wardrobe for cold winterdays, it might do, might be perfect and she turns her back to him to retrieve it, opens the doors.

It's in the back, and she reaches for it, stretches herself as far as she can and his hand is on her hip - she has not heard him get up, but his cock is pressed against the cleft between her buttocks and her sex spasms. She pushes back, her hair brushes over her bare back, his hand that was on her hip slides forward, holds her breast, it fills his palms and fingers, he pinches her nipple.

He pulls her up, her back against his chest, his one arm around her waist, his lips on her neck, her breathing moistening her skin. His hand presses harder against her breast, the plaid is halfway out the closet, falling over her feet and she needs it on the floor, over the matting, to be able to lay on it with him, his weight on top of her, her legs wrapped around him.

She turns into his arms, makes him help her and together they carefully sink to the floor, his knee clicks and she is stiff from her little stint in the scullery, but when they lay side by side - the floor is still hard, but the surface is smooth, warm almost with the wool - she fits perfectly against him, she almost melts into him, touches his cheek again, smiles and he smiles back, kisses a trail across her cheek, capture her lips with his and they kiss for a long, long time, slowly, thoroughly and their hands search, touch, they make each other ready for that final step.

There would be time still to break it off, to get up off the floor, run to her sitting room and lock herself in, there is still time for him to push her away, get up, fling on some clothes and stomp away to his room.

But they don't, they stay, move, touch, kiss. The tips of his fingers over her stiff nipples, he weighs the heaviness of her breast in his palm. She feels his heart beat under her hand, would like to move it down, touch him there as he has already touched her, but she daren't though she needs to feel they are doing this together, that they are equal in this.

He moves, rolls her on her back, runs his free hand over her leg, her inner thigh, through her curls, opens her up and finally touches her there, there where she wanted him before and she arches her back, lets out a shuddering breath.

"Closer..." She whispers in his ear.

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**A/N:** No brooch yet - turns out these two enjoy taking their time. And why shouldn't they.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Part three, dear readers. As per usual in this fic a warning for SEXUAL CONTENT and it plunges right in, so if you are not comfortable, turn away now.

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He settles between her legs, slips his fingers through her moist curls and she tilts her hips, automatically lifts her leg to accommodate him and she feels him push against her and he slowly, slowly takes her.

There is no pain, only an exquisite stretching, a filling of a void she has only noticed this moment. When he can't go any further, he holds still, wipes away the lone tear that has fallen from the corner of her eye, not because she is hurt or sad but for the first time in so long she is getting what she wants, what she so desperately needs and she clenches her legs tighter around him and knows he cannot move this way, they cannot set up a rhythm, but for now all she wants it to be close to him and she buries her face in his neck, her nails scratch across his back. She feels his lips curl into a smile against her cheek and she lays back down, releases her tight grip, tilts her hips, again and again and there is friction and nearness, pleasure.

Her heels dig in his buttocks and his slow, steady, even rhythm is changing and she hears her own moaning, grabs his flesh to pull him closer. "Yes, yes... please..." It's not a conscious thing, it just escapes her as he hits something inside that makes her lose her breath, makes her squeeze her eyes shut.

How, she wonders, could this be wrong? Finally finding your home, everything that makes it such, can never be wrong. When they are through with this - not for a long while though, she will try to drag this out until her tailbone hurts from hitting the hard floor, until he is so tired he collapses on top of her - he will hold her. He will not grab a rag and clean himself off, drop it and turn, leaving her empty, angry, disappointed and soiled. Now - it is nowhere near the end yet - he grabs her buttocks firmly, lifts her slightly and angles in yet another new way, making her feel like she is soaring on the wind like the small birds she used to see flying over the farm.

He is making this about her as much as he is about him and she holds on to him, does what feels right, what comes easy - so much easier than anticipated, even when she imagined it and she has, so many times. Pleasure is easy to come by, she knows. But this, this knowing how to move to get that low moan out of him, this touch of his hand over her hipbone when he kneels before her and plunges in so thoroughly, this is different.

This is good, so good and she whispers it, moans it, begs him to never stop, to hold on. She calls to gods unknown, her fingernails are digging in the soft flesh of his lower back as she tries to get closer, to dictate his rhythm and his panting, his softer grunts. His lips on her cheek, throat, collarbones are her undoing as she comes so hard, so unlike any time before, the cry that escapes her scrapes her throat and it hurts, but it's the toll she has to pay for being brazen and wanton and utterly delighted.

He collapses on top of her, he has spilled himself inside her, like she had predicted. His heart is hammering, she feels it against her own chest. They turn. He is on his back and she is curled up against him, her head on his shoulder, his kisses in her hair and it's as she had hoped, a perfect little moment, even if her entire body is hurting and she knows he is now worn out and fighting against sleep. She runs her palm over his chest hair, he squeezes her shoulder. They kiss. Again, again, her lips are chapped, they are not used to such activity, just like her thighs will ache in the morning and there must be bruises forming on her back and shoulder blades.

She chuckles when she thinks of his clicking knee earlier and wonders how it will be when they try to get up in a while. She shivers. Now they are wrapped in each other's limbs but unmoving, the chill of the night catches up with them and she pushes herself up, sits, gingerly moves her legs.

"We can't stay here."

He grabs her hand, uses it as leverage to sit too and his face contorts when he gets to his feet. The clicking sound of bone against bone echoes in the room and she wonders if the sounds they have made just now have sounded so hollow too. She embraces his waist as soon as he has helped her up, they are naked (she needs to tell herself, needs to notice, to remember all this really did happen) and she feels how she needs a thorough wash before she crawls between her sheets.

She does not want to think about how she will have sleep alone. There is no way they can creep in either of the other's bedroom without being noticed either now or in the morning. She is saddened that they will have to be apart after being so incredibly together. She leans against him, her forehead on his breastbone. The fire is dying and she is chilly, but she doesn't want to leave the sitting room, she doesn't want to fold the plaid and put it away. If she does, she will have to go up, to her room and sleep alone after being perfectly together for too short a time.

He strokes her back. "We have to go."

"No."

He lets out a chuckle.

"You are getting cold..."

"Yes."

She doesn't move. Grabs him tighter. "Hold me..."

They don't move and the draft is creeping up her calfs.

"Why did you come and look for me?" She asks, she needs a distraction to help her ignore the cramp in her foot.

"I was worried."

"Oh..."

"You didn't seem very surprised to see me." He looks into her eyes, a tiny smile crinkles the lines by his eyes.

"I was hoping it would be you."

"And it was."

"Yes, it was."

There are more kisses, fingertips on cheeks, pelvises pressing against each other but the fire has gone out. The cramp won't be ignored, she feels how he tiredly leans on her. She cannot stall any longer.

"Alright. Lets go then." Her voice takes on the same practical tone as it does when she is instructing her maids.

"Lets get something around you." He picks up the plaid, wraps it around her carefully like the towel earlier. She knows he is good at that, it's part of his job after all and no-one is better at being a butler than he is. She watches him as he puts on his underwear and trousers and holds the door for her. The hall is dark, the stairs creak under their feet and its one flight, another and the final one and they stand by the door that separate the corridors.

He bends over and kisses her cheek. It's sweet, chivalrous and she gives him a smile. He opens the door and her fingers claw at his lower arm but she is not fast enough and he only turns his head briefly to nod at her and she is alone behind a closed door.

Her keys are in her sitting room.

For once she will not go down and get them. For once she will just go into her room, wash (though she wishes she could keep his scent on her body forever, to be somehow claimed and have claimed him, for she knows she would be able to smell herself on him) and sleep. If this turns out to be the night the whole staff goes mad, so be it.

Morning comes as quickly as she had anticipated. Had rushed out of bed, into her clothes, done up her hair while running down the stairs to get that brooch from the scullery. They had forgotten all about it, but just as she was drifting off, it was the clearest thought in her mind and right now she is standing face to face with Anna who is holding it in her hand.

She can feel the angry red blotches form in her neck, a deep blush appear on her cheeks and she knows it's just a brooch in the scullery and there could be any number of reasons for it being there, just like the hairpins that are accompanying it, but there isn't another explanation she can think of as she can still feel his thumbs on her sides pressing and sliding, his lips on the inside of her elbow and his cool whispers in her ear.

"Thank you, Anna." Her voice sounds normal, she has that at least when she sticks out her hand to take the items and tries to not see the tiny smirk quirking around Anna's lips and it hits her, as she walks away towards her sitting room - to fold her dry clothes, check if the boning in her corset hasn't rusted, to make sure the room looks like nothing ever happened - she may not have been the only one waiting for the developments of last night.

Was that why she had simply looked at him when he had come into the scullery and had found her there in the sink. After all it was quite preposterous of her to have done such a thing, but maybe there had been a full moon or perhaps it was fate. For now she doesn't question it, she just plays the events in her mind. His hand steadying her as he helped her out of that sink, his touch fleetingly on her shoulder when he covered her in the towel. The way things happened so fast but how they had savoured every single moment of it. It had been such a terribly long time coming.

Mrs Patmore calls out to the maids and footmen, there are running feet of bootboys going past her door and she knows she will have to face him now. She will have to sit beside him and she does not know how he will be. She does not know if in the night he decided it had been a terrible mistake - not that she thinks he would, he seemed very much in control of himself and the situation at hand (she can feel the blood rush to her sex as she remembers his hand exactly there) - he might even have overslept, she has not seeked him out.

He is already there when she walks up to the table. She nods to her girls, takes her seat, glances at him while she reaches for toast, for tea, butter, jam. There is nothing there to indicate there is anything out of the ordinary. He talks to Mr Bates, she notices how they are becoming great friends. She looks over at Anna who is speaking to Miss O'Brien and she sighs with relief.

Everything is normal.

Until his hand is on her tigh.

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A/N: I am not sure if I shall leave it at this, so for now the fic will say 'in progress' until I have slept on it for a bit.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Well, here it is, the fourth chapter. Completely safe for work, just a lot of rambling really.

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Between all the secret-keeping and fragility, there it is. His hand on her thigh while they eat and it is a warm, glowing feeling and a fluttering of her heart and she had not expected that. She had not expected anything to change really, not much. She had thought perhaps they would visit each other from time to time, to give in to the holding on and maybe a soft hand on the small of her back when being helped into the car.

He hasn't forgotten what happened during the night, she sees it in the tiniest smile that lingers on his lips, in the way he answers Mr Bates absentmindedly. She feels it in the way his fingers run over the edge of her stocking through the skirt of her dress and she is warm, warmer than she has been before. She is filled with contentment and with joy and with shame and she knows the shame is all her mother's warnings, all the housekeepers she once answered to and her own voice as she passes out these same warnings to her maids, her girls.

_Be careful, my girl, men only want one thing and it will be your ruin._

Her care had not protected her, her 'no' had not been heard, but she had been lucky, and now, such a very long time later, she was done being careful. She was ready to embrace her ruin because the world is changing and maids are marrying valets and setting up house, upper class ladies take in reforming prostitutes (the word makes her do a double take even if she only thinks it).

Because the butler kissed the Housekeeper and declared his love for her through his body.

He is looking at her and she smiles faintly, nothing more than she usually would. His hand leaves her leg, touches her arm and he gets up: "I have work to do." She nods and watches him go and all the moves they made together on the wooden floor are there. He is hunched over - not that she thinks anyone would notice, but she sees it - his left leg takes more weight than the right and she bites her lip, thinks how next time they will need to find a more comfortable setting.

Next time.

She fantasizes: a bed, his, hers, one in the many unused rooms. A sofa in the drawing room. The hayloft at home farm. The soft grass at the far end of the garden. There are endless possibilities, but she cannot be sure there will be a next time. She hopes there will be, but he is the butler and she is the housekeeper and while things are shifting (the Grantham's London neighbours have a married couple running their house, but that is - as he would say: all a tad too modern), she is not.

They know now. They have not said it with words, but she knows and she touches her lips that are still chapped, lets her hand drift to the thumb print on her hip. How could they have gone so long without? It was always there, wasn't it?

There were sideways glances and little touches and he can look at her in a way that makes her forget about anything and she will roll her eyes at him when he is being an old curmudgeon and he will say hurtful things to her and it is not like with her mother, it's not like the heavy beatings and the posy of wildflowers the next day. It's because they are so close together without much space to move and all couples fight. They are no exception.

They have been a couple for a long time. She will lead him away from the Servants' Hall when he simply cannot take anymore and he will come to her rescue, though she doesn't need it. Letting their guards down will bring changes and he doesn't like change and it scares her because she doesn't want to give up this new thing she's found.

* * *

Nothing out of the ordinary happens during the day. They have lunch, work on menus and check their staff and she brings him a cup of tea when he works on the wine labels and she does as she had thought she would: presses herself against him as she puts the cup on the desk and she leaves a kiss in his hair and he makes her feel like it is the most normal thing in the world, like they have always done this and it making her feel stronger, more secure in this, this unannounceable thing.

The dinner table is crowded and there's Mr Molesley because Mrs Crawley is dining with the family and he doesn't like to eat with the new maid of all trades who makes fun of him. He sits next to Alfred, who is kind, even if his judgment is not always the best. She cannot hear what they talk about, but like all the others it is not about anything that concerns her. Anna is simply talking to Thomas, hasn't even given her a glance. He oversees the table and addresses various members of staff. The conversations are short and she feels it's like a father of a large family trying to give all the children equal attention.

One of her maids at the end of the table is pushing her food around and she makes a mental note to talk to her. Homesickness, probably. She realises that she gets homesick for him when he is away for the season. If he is not close to her, if she does not know he is somewhere under the same roof, she is lonely.

He passes her a plate of dessert. When she takes it, their fingers touch. He smiles and she has to be quick to turn her face, so afraid is she someone will see it, that thing between them.

She stuffs the pudding in her mouth, chews quickly, hardly noticing what it tastes like and asks to be excuses and he lets her go.

She buries herself in sheets of paper, listens to footsteps outside her door. The clock ticks in the corner. One minute, two, fifteen and his steps go past, up the stairs. Lord Grantham must have rung for him. Brandy in the library. She laughs at herself when she fantasises about a bell in her room and him running to do her bidding. But it's not far from the truth. He will be in her room tonight, there will be wine or port or maybe sherry and they will sit and talk and he will ask if there is anything he can do for her.

So she waits for him. Gets out her room once, twice, wishes her maids a goodnight, keeps the quiet one behind, talks to her and it's homesickness and not fitting in and it's all easily remedied with a few more weeks of work and a gentle word to the others to be a bit more caring.

He returns to her with a carafe half full of dark red liquid and she lets him go in first, follows him and closes the door carefully. They sit in their respective chairs, talk, like they always do, drink their wine. Cozy. Nice. Exactly what she wants. She does not want chaotic upheaval. She wants kindness and trust and his hand on hers, his lips on her temple. She wants to talk about Daisy and Mr Mason's offer, about things that bothered him today (he says there is nothing, which means there must be something).

He worries about Thomas and she understands. Thomas is young, ambitious, manipulative. Uses the information he has on others to his advantage. If he were to find out, she does not know what he would do. He is Underbutler now, a glorified First Footman, because he is good enough a butler still, he does not forget, can still carry heavy silver trays up stairs, still helps the ladies in and out of their coats and wraps without touching them.

How else would Thomas become butler?

Hasn't he always said he would die in harness? She wish it wasn't so, wishes he will come with her when she is done, when she is tired and the stairs become too much and she starts calling her maids names of girls long gone. Hopefully a little before that. She would like to spend her retirement happy and healthy. She has worked hard for it.

So has he. He has worked hard, with utter dedication, neatly sewing himself into the seams of the house. It's not just a job for him, like it is for her, it's a vocation. Like a priest dedicating himself to the service of God, he has dedicated himself to the service of the Granthams. She will not pretend she understands, she doesn't, not fully. She will always keep her distance detached, while his distance is only skin deep.

He worries about Thomas and she worries about Anna and tells him about the brooch, the hairpins and he squeezes her hand, tells her that if it is Anna who knows, that is infinitely less damaging than when Thomas lets the cat out of the bag. He kisses her knuckles and she is thankful she no longer scrubs floors, rinses out sheets, cleans out grates.

They have finished the wine, have spoken of things in the house, things between themselves, but haven't named it. He follows her up the stairs, flicks the light switches they come across, checks the front door one last time. They climb to the attic and he kisses her by the door and she locks it behind him, doesn't go with him, even if she wants to, wants it more than she knows is proper.

But there is no need to court danger.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/R:** I have never struggled with a fic like I am with this one and I am so thankful to all of you for following, favouriting and reviewing and I am sprinkling you all with glitter and feeding you delicious triple chocolate chip cookies.

**WARNING**: Sexual situations! **WARNING:** reference to (physical) abuse

* * *

Nothing changes much. It's still ledgers and rotas and words about Thomas. It's breakfast at seven thirty, lunch when they can, dinner after the family and on Sunday they hold hands in the pew during service and it is a guilty pleasure, an indulgence. No-one notices his hand on her thigh during breakfast. His thumb prints hidden under her chemise and knickers, underskirts and dress.

They walk closely together, they have always done, it goes unnoticed. He sometimes touches her hand. She lets her hip touch his leg when they go around the sharp corner of an upstairs corridor. She sends the scullery maid up before they start their wine and it gives her peace when they can go upstairs unseen, sometimes slightly tiddly, where he kisses her so gently and thoroughly it sets her heart and loins on fire. Only once they couldn't resist the temptation and they fled to his bed, the wooden framed one with the old fashioned mattress that wouldn't creak and they did it so carefully, so noiselessly, there were no marks on her the next day and her body didn't smell of him in the morning.

She prefers the other times. The times when he takes hold of her hips, covers her breast with the palm of his broad hand and the soft mound spills over and he kisses her again and again until she pants and unbuttons his fly to touch him, to drive him to the edge as he does her. She holds on to him while they move together, afraid to let go, worried she will suddenly realise she is not really there under him, it's not really her legs wrapped around his hips, not really his lips on her temple.

She pretends she doesn't feel the shame, but her mother's voice rings in her ears every time she goes to the cold attic room and washes away what's left of him and crawls between the cold sheets. Her whispered words to her mother echo against the wall in the dark: "Don't worry, nothing will happen. Don't worry, no-one will find out. Why can you not be pleased for me?"

The memory of her mother is fading, she remembers the smell of her, the calloused hands that would wipe her hair from her forehead, the breaking voice and the broken back, the bruises and the lingering scent of dried blood, the sound of the endless warnings. She cannot imagine what her mother would answer to her pleading. She was an unhappy woman with a cruel husband and two daughters who fled away as soon as they could. What would she have said about an affair conducted in the shadows and a love that cannot be spoken about.

But she tells herself: he doesn't beat me. He doesn't torture me. Doesn't tell me I am ugly, lazy, stupid.

Her mother would have been pleased to know that her man - her beau, she supposes - lets her be, lets her do her work and shows her joy in the most human of touches. Mum would have been pleased that there were stars in her eyes. She tells herself her mother would have understood.

The night is forgiving, even if her mother might not have been. It covers her and him and them together and her loneliness after she has to leave him on the other side of the door that separates the men from the women, secures the honour of all of them and she smiles to the ceiling, thinking how her honour has been tainted and that she enjoys it, revels in it, still feels the soft mattress of a spare bedroom, the coolness of the cotton sheets, the heaviness of his body on top of hers and the pleasure he gives her.

She had been afraid he would start making demands now she had given herself to him so freely, but he doesn't, he lets her set the pace, immediately stops when she pulls away from him, though she doesn't often. She loves the way he nibbles her neck, runs a finger across her spine, loves feeling how it bobs up and down over the laces of her corset.

She loves how they check the linen rota to see where they can go - which room is free, where the sheets have been changed, where the door can be locked - , standing bent over the notebook side by side, his hand sliding from her hip to cup her bottom, squeezing it, fondling.

She loves how he puts his hands on her cheeks when he lowers his face to kiss her and she goes weak when he sits next to her and his hand runs from her knee to her inner thigh. He does it at breakfast sometimes, ghosts his fingers over the edge of her stocking, slowly moves it upwards, touches the hem of her knickers through the fabric of her skirt and she can hear her own sharp intake of breath, but she doesn't move his hand from her body, she longs for him to touch her, his touch makes her feel more alive than anything she can imagine - not running home through a thunderstorm, not tipping back a glass of Scotch.

She recalls how the other day all their staff had left the table, off to dress their employers, off to clean the grates, off to set the breakfast table, off somewhere and he had had dropped his spoon and when he reached to get it, he had grabbed hold of her ankle, slid his hand across her stocking, up, up, up, so far up he had run his fingers over her garter, over the soft, warm skin of her upper inner thigh and he had managed to find the slid in her knickers and touched her. There. She had opened her legs wider, had slouched somewhat in her chair and she had let him rub her until she came.

It was wanton.

Delicious.

She hardly touches herself nowadays, he fills her need for release. Not just with his body, not just with his fingers and the way he lets her be on top when her day has been particularly difficult and she needs to work through her frustration, pushing herself onto him again and again, taking him, being the one in control.

But sometimes just the feeling of his skin on hers can be enough. When he holds her hand, touches her neck, grazes his knuckles over her cheek, there are days that is enough. Plenty. There are days she can only roll her eyes at him and make snippy remarks and be sarcastic, because nothing has changed much. They are still the same people: he is inflexible and afraid of change and she is quick to adapt and she fights with Mrs Patmore about the key and he gets annoyed when she comes in just as he is decanting the wine.

They speak easily, smoothly and there are moments of quiet between them and sometimes they just sit in her room, side by side and read their books, or he reads to her while she mends his socks, the hem of his shirt and it's very homely. Domestic in a way she only knows from books. That is why she isn't entirely sure it's all really happening.

Until he has her pinned against the wall and he kisses her while the maids are changing the sheets and the footmen are taking care of the dining room and he is raising her skirt, the fabric between his fingers and he grinds against her and she pushes back, moaning.

Until everyone is busy and she raises her leg, wrapping it around his strong thigh and her fingers find their way to his fly and she feels him straining against her hand and he whispers in her ear, words of excitement and dedication.

Until he nips at the skin of her throat and he lays his hand on her corset and she knows he can feel how the pressure pushes her breasts slightly over the edge and he grabs hold of her bottom and she leans her head back, giving his lips more access.

Until she hears a gasp that is not hers nor his and the scraping of a throat and she pushes him off, feels her skirt fall down and the draft catching on the moistness on her neck and she looks into the face of Anna Bates, who is blushing fiercely but doesn't move and she instantly feels sick, looks at him and sees his pale face and for the first time since she has been at Downton, she does not know what to do or what to say.

She just stares at Anna who stares back and she feels him retreat, escape, hears the door of his pantry slam shut and she is there with the Lady's Maid and she remembers what is always being said:

"There is nothing a Lady's Maid likes more than scandal."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** The sixth installment. Finally. After writing myself in a corner once or twice, after nagging and moaning to everyone who would listen (or not) about it. I hope you'll enjoy. If you do (or don't!), don't hesitate to let me know! Warning: references to (physical) abuse! Warning: references to sexual situations!

* * *

They sit across from each other, teacups in hand. She doesn't have the words to start this conversation, silence hangs heavily between them. They sip in turns. All she can think of is her stupidity. How could they have been so careless - it was foolish to think there was nobody downstairs. She is screaming at herself, silently. She doubts Anna can see anything past her Housekeeper's dress, her suit of armor. Her hand doesn't tremble as she sips her tea, scorches her tongue, takes it as the punishment she feels she deserves.

Not because she feels her love for Charles is wrong - love can never be wrong, she knows that now - but because it was Anna who had to witness them. Of course she is glad it was Anna, not O'Brien. Anna married the valet, the girl had lived with the shame of having a husband locked away for life. She knows that Anna will understand, will quirk that little smile around her lips, say something not-quite-proper and leave, the secret intact, though shared. Anna has enough secrets to keep, she knows. There are the secrets Mr Bates has confided in his wife, the confidences of Lady Mary.

She pours another cup, opens the tin of biscuits she keeps on the shelf, the biscuits are really for visitors, but she hardly gets any company, doesn't really know anyone, so she eats most of them herself and shares them with him on evenings they drink tea because the family finished the wine. Tea and biscuits and reading and the sound of needles clicking against each other. Being together, admitting she couldn't do it on her own, giving in to cravings of touches and kisses has made Downton her home.

She understands now how they could have stood against the wall, wrapped around each other kissing, touching.

It's because you don't expect to be crept up on in your home.

Unless you have children perhaps. She stirs her tea, picks up the tin, offers Anna one wordlessly and she sees the small hand wrap around a piece of shortbread, the wedding ring glinting in the lamplight and she bites her secret is safe, but she will be judged, even if the girl is loyal, because loyalty and acquaintance do not stop anyone from forming ideas. Not even if Anna has been in her care for almost fifteen years, even if the girl is the closest to a daughter she'll ever have. Even if she isn't allowed to feel that way.

She sighs deeply. She wonders if they must talk about it. She has never spoken to her mother about the times she had caught her parents in compromising positions. She has spoken to her girls, warned them time and again, has sent them away once or twice. She recalls the harsh words to Ethel and the other girl who had not managed to keep to herself, thinks how she should have been kinder, kinder than sending a girl to a shelter of decent repute with a good reference, kinder than sending food from the pantry, making the child shirts and woolly hats.

Her tongue still smarts and Anna is looking at her, her head slightly tilted and there is no smile, only curiosity and she knows she must speak. How can she make the girl understand? She tries to form sentences, words that will defend her and she suddenly realises that from all the people running into them, Anna would be the one who could have been in the exact same position and the words fall from her mouth:

"I love him."

* * *

She finds him in his pantry. He is writing, a letter it seems, he doesn't look up. She scolds him from her place by the door, the door she has carefully closed, like she closed the door to her sitting room meticulously. Now it was not to keep the footmen out - she had not wanted any of her maids coming in when she had barricaded her sitting room, a closed door was enough to uninvite anyone - but to keep her voice in.

Her voice sounds sharp and louder than usual. She accuses him of leaving her behind, to fight their battle on her own. She calls him a coward, means it in that moment and she is proud of calling him out, of standing up for herself, for not allowing him to walk all over her.

Being trampled upon is the first step towards blacks eyes and broken wrists. He is not her father, but he is a man and she doesn't truly trust men on the whole. She doesn't know how to stop the feeling of utter let-down, recalls how facing Anna on her own has frightened her, how he has left her out of control for long, long minutes and he knows she has to be the one who reacts, decides.

He keeps writing and her temper rises. She looks around for something to throw, but his room is so sparse, there is nothing, nothing that would only shatter, everything she'd break would break his heart and that is not what she wants. She just wants him to look at her, to acknowledge that she is angry with him, she doesn't expect him to yell back at her, it's not like him. He bellows at his boys, but he never yells, shouts. Not even when pushed as far as he can be pushed. He walks away and that is why she has positioned herself against the door, her hand on the frame and she takes deep breaths to steady herself.

"Have you even heard me?" She asks, her voice is trembling, her hands are trembling too. Fury makes her unstable, more than the shame she felt not an hour ago, not the kindness of Anna's words, the exchanging of secrets.

He doesn't answer.

"You won't have to worry about Anna, it's all been taken care of." She adds. The thought of Anna's secrets is helping. He nods now, rubs his neck with his left hand as he keeps writing with the right.

With sudden clarity, she understands.

He is writing to her.

"Are you..." She doesn't know quite how to bring it, has only refused one man before - twice, but still.

"Are you cutting me loose?" Her heart almost stops beating, it hurts, tears fill her eyes. All her anger seeps out of her. Her throat is tight, she doesn't remember how to swallow.

"Don't..." She whispers.

She is not used to her words falling on deaf ears, she isn't used to being ignored, being silenced. She turns around, opens the door.

Leaves.

As she turns the corner, she hears his heavy footsteps behind her. She doesn't stop and he grabs her arm, not tightly, not painfully, just as she is on the second step. His fingers dig in the fabric of her dress and she turns. Doesn't take the effort to wipe the tears from her face.

"Here," He says, "read this." Thrusts the letter he's been writing in her hand and her eyes fly over the lines. His handwriting neat, unflourished.

"No." She says, gives him back the letter.

"You can't. You are not ready." She puts her hand on his cheek, feels the start of a stubble - it must be later than she thinks - presses a kiss to his forehead and leaves him standing at the bottom as she climbs the stairs further and goes about her day.

She reprimands a girl who has been taking her work too lightly, inspects bedrooms - including the one they used last for their secret meetings (she can still smell the lemon she had used to get the stain out of the uncovered mattress, pushes back the nightstand that has moved, undoubtedly through their vigorous lovemaking). She shakes out curtains, rubs her finger across ledges, winds up the clock in the Master bedroom. She walks the stairs, up, down, up, down, gets called in by her Ladyship, checks the library for the books being taken out by her charges, sees that he has chosen another Dickens.

One day, she thinks, she will make him read her gothic novels out loud. She will knit or sew or mend and he will read about rugged moors, insane wives being kept in the attics and he will tut and falter and try again and she will put away her things, pry the book from his hands and sit in his lap. She will kiss him until he undresses her where she sits, until his lips leave hers to kiss and nip her breasts, until she will feel his want for her rising against her bottom and his hand starts pushing up her skirt.

His letter had spoken of a small cottage he might be able to afford, of taking her with him and the sincerest apologies about leaving the house in a state of upheaval. He had written about how he had trained both Mr Barrow and Mr Bates and that they would both make good replacements and that she had always seen Anna as the one to follow in her footsteps. He had taken care of everything. He is right: both Thomas and Mr Bates would be able to take on the tasks of butler, though Mr Bates might find the job quite strenuous. Thomas would be young, very young, younger than he was when he started as butler, but it's not something she would worry about. She can easily see Anna giving the orders, being in charge. She is a natural. She herself had started as Housekeeper first when she was Anna's age.

She stands at the window of a bedroom on the second floor and watches the wind move through the flower beds. The heads of the flowers sway gently, as if they were dancing to music she cannot hear. She knows he cannot leave Downton. Not yet. Not forced like this and she has told him everything will be alright. That Anna will not betray them. She trusts Anna, especially with the secret given to her in return.

A secret that will leave his letter, all his quick and careful planning useless.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for following, favoriting and reviewing this story, it really means an awful lot to me. You are all amazing for sticking with it until the bitter end (which has now arrived in the form of the seventh chapter)!

* * *

Anna and Mr Bates leave. She had known if for a while. Since Anna caught them in the hall, since the quiet, awkward cups of tea when the girl confided that she understood, that love makes you do things you never thought you would, that it makes you strong and reckless. The girl had confided in her that she and Mr Bates had almost saved up enough money to afford the first two months of rent and the fees and license to start the inn they had been dreaming about just before they were married.

"And maybe start a family." The girl had said, shyly.

"Start a family..." She had echoed and understood. She had no problem imagining a life away from service, of starting a life that was all your own. He, on the other hand, had been quite put out.

He had sat in her sitting room, one hand crumpling the letter he had found on his desk - written by Mr Bates, handing in his notice after carefully talking it through with his lordship - the other clenched around the cup of tea she had poured him. He had spoken of how he had welcomed back Mr Bates with open arms after his imprisonment like a friend, had trusted him with worries of his own and now he was leaving? After all Lord Grantham had done for him? And he was taking Anna with him? Leaving the house - he means his precious Lady Mary - without a Lady's Maid?

She had let him be. Let him talk of ingratitude, let him come out with his confusion, his hurt. He had grabbed a biscuit from the tin without being offered, had put his cup down with a thud and he had looked at her with such pleading eyes, she had wrapped him in her arms, held him to her chest and told him how people are not all the same, that people have different dreams and that Mr Bates and Anna dream of a life together, of working for their own purpose, of having children and she had kissed the top of his head, kissed his cheeks, his mouth, had comforted him with her body, kept him warm during the night.

The pair leaves, Thomas is back to being valet. The boy - will he ever be a man to her? more than an ambitious youngster who has demons of his own to fight? she doesn't know - doesn't show him the respect he deserves. She is proud of how he doesn't act upon it, doesn't call the boy into his office, dismisses him without a reference. They sit in his pantry one evening and she asks about it. He tells her they have been giving Thomas too much leeway, have held their hands over his head and they cannot suddenly stop. He tells her things will be alright, that these things take time.

She doesn't like to think of how long things take. She feels how she is getting older day by day, feels it, deep in her bones, her skin. Her knees click in the evening, her back is stiff when she wakes up.

She feels she deserves a room of her own now she old enough to be someone's grandmother three times over. She wants a living room and a settee, a little sideboard with framed pictures and she wants bright wallpaper. She wants a double bed with a heavy mattress that hasn't a single lump in it and soft, supple sheets that are new and that are hers.

He is not ready though. She feels it as he jerks away from her, still buried deep inside, mumbles about how he has forgotten to discuss the guns with his lordship and she pulls at him, digs her fingers in his flesh, rocks her hips, tries to get him back. She never thinks of work when they do this, when they strike up the rhythm that comes easily to them, she doesn't think of rotas and ledgers and suppliers when his fingers touch her skin, her nipples, when his tongue is on the shell of her ear, between her legs. She doesn't think at all, she just feels, gives herself over to it.

She watches him in the weeks after Mr Bates and Anna left, sees how he is kinder, milder almost, she sees that while he may not be ready, it is not as far off as she initially thought. He walks past a vase that is not entirely straight, he doesn't wake up early on days the wine delivery comes. He is not lowering his standards, of course not, he could never do that, his standards are part of his make up. He gets a little more relaxed. He stands straight, but he looks approachable now. He allows the Branson todd to clamber towards him and picks her up. He coos at the little Crawley baby. He is allowing himself to be human as well as butler.

* * *

"What do you think?" He asks.

"Very nice." She answers, takes her glass, sips, waits for him to make his case.

He scrapes his throat. "I mean... what do you think?" He emphasises, looks at her intently.

"I think you can be very happy there, it's close to the house, you can easily pop by if you feel the need." Her knitting needles click against each other as she sets up stitches. Feels the corners of her mouth twitch. Teasing him is easy, but she won't come with him unless he asks, she wants him to want her there, to need her there.

He is silent though and she looks at her work, the four needles sticking out, her fingers nimble, her movements sure and steady.

"What is it?"

"Don't you want to come with me? Only, I thought you might and..." He stumbles, cannot find the words and she isn't cruel, she looks up, smiles at him.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't leave if I didn't know you might come with me, I still have some work left in me, you know." He puffs up his chest and she lets out a scoff.

"You want to carry eleven pounds of silver tea tray up two flights of stairs only to find the family decided to go to the library? Do you want to scold the delivery boy for bringing you copper polish instead of silver polish? Do you really want to deal with the drama still going on between Jimmy and Alfred and Thomas? Do you really?"

She puts her knitting on the table beside her chair and gets up, goes over to him, leans in, her face so close to his, her hands on the armrests to support herself.

"Do you really want to keep sneaking around? Do you really want to keep taking me to unused, cold, damp rooms and have me on unmade beds, or against peeling wallpaper? Do you want to keep worrying about a maid coming in when you are kissing me, when you have your hand up my skirt, when I am taking you in my mouth..."

Her voice is hoarse, thinking about this has her breathing hard. She bites her lip, closes her eyes for a brief moment and his lips are on her cheeks, his hand on her bottom, the other works loose the buttons on the front of her dress.

"While I admit that it would be nice to have you in my own bed, to take you whenever the mood strikes, to do all this to my wife - she hisses as he tugs on her earlobe with his teeth between his easily formed words - there is an element about being caught I really enjoy. I will miss it."

"What will you miss?" His hand kneads her bum and then starts to pull up her skirt, finds the skin between knickers and stockings, gently touches her.

His lips are nearly on her ear as he whispers.

"I'll miss having my hand on your leg at breakfast, the way you spread your legs as I move it towards your sex... I will miss pushing you up against the wall in an upstairs corridor while I know her ladyship is entertaining and feeling your wetness against my fingers as I hike up your skirts and push away your knickers... I will miss bending you over the Servants' Hall table in the middle of the night... I will miss re-enacting that first night when I found you nude in the scullery sink, pouring water over yourself with an old wooden bucket... I am thinking of taking that bucket with us..."

His words are paired with kisses, with touches and strokes and he has untied the ribbon of her knickers, they are pooling around her feet and he is stroking her, dipping his fingers inside her, making her moan and pant. If she lets go of the armrests, she will fall on top of him, she has no control over her legs it seems. She wants more, though. His fingers aren't enough, she wants him, to celebrate, to mark the occasion. Carefully she lets go of one hand and she touches him, gropes him. She is so well trained in undressing him, she only needs the fingers of her one hand to undo his fly, to free him and he scoots forward, only a little, but she understands and turns.

She sits down on him, rides him, his hands on her hips, her corset digging in her as she bends and moves. She undoes more buttons of her dress while he is deep inside her, while she cannot hold back the noises of pure pleasure. She shrugs off the top of her dress, the busk of her corset is under such strain, it almost springs apart as she pushes the two sides against each other to undo it.

His hands find her breasts with the certainty of experience, he sneaks them under her chemise, skin against skin, his fingers tugging at her nipples and she is close, so close... For a moment it flashes through her mind: this might be the last time we do this here, this is the appropriate place, this is good, oh, this is good, this is so good...

* * *

"You are not lifting anything, are you?" She calls inside to Anna who is in charge of provisions.

"No, I'm not. I have a brew ready though, if you like a cuppa." The girl calls back.

She is tired and all she really wants is a cup of tea and a biscuit and a quiet chat at her new kitchen table. She turns to look at him and Mr Bates who are unloading their few possessions from the cart.

"You go in, we'll take care of this." He says, nods, smiles. They have so few things and they have done most of it themselves. Mr Bates is strong these days, it must be the lack of stairs, she thinks. She looks at him and he nods.

She wipes her hands on a towel by the door and drops into a chair in her kitchen. Anna is bustling about, the oven is on, there is something in there, a casserole or a shepherds pie and she has put a dinky plate of biscuits on the table and the teapot under a cosy, cups are waiting to be filled.

"Things going alright?"

"I always thought we had so few things, that moving would be a matter of an hour at the most..." She sighs, raises her shoulders and they click.

"It's always more work than we think, isn't it?" Anna moves heavily through the kitchen and she looks at the girl, how she fills out one of Lady Mary's cast offs. She looks very beautiful. Happy. Content.

They sit at the table and drink their tea, eat biscuits. There is no awkwardness, it's companionable almost. There are few people you can be quiet with, she thinks.

"Are you sure you want that old wooden bucket, though? It's looking a bit tattered. They do these lighter ones now, very easy to keep clean." Anna stirs her tea, rubs her tummy.

The idea that Anna is no longer the little fifteen year old girl who was so hardworking and willing to learn, who held her own in conversations with Miss O'Brien and with him is strangely confronting. Maybe Anna is what she could have been had she taken Joe up on his offer, had she seduced him earlier. But it doesn't do to dwell on what might have been, she can easily focus on what will be soon. She has a basket full of little socks and woolly hats and tiny shirts for Anna. She imagines the child might come to visit them. She'd like that. She finds it comforting, feels strangely rewarded, the way he does with the little Crawley todd.

"Oh, we are keeping it for sentimental reasons." She answers.

"I didn't know you were very sentimental."

She takes a biscuit from the plate.

"Oh... more than you think." She smiles and drinks her tea.


End file.
